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ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


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Y\/Ot 


NETS  TO  CATCH 
THE   WIND 


By 
ELINOR  WYLIE 


NEW   YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ2I,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE  AND   COMPANY,    INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U    S    A.  BY 

THE   OUINN    a    DODEN    COMPANY 

RAHWAY.    N      J. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  author  desires  to  thank  the  following  maga 
zines  for  permission  to  reprint  here  such  poems  as 
originally  appeared  in  their  pages:  The  Century 
Magazine,  The  New  Republic,  The  Nation, 
"  Poetry,"  Ainslee's  Magazine,  The  Outlook,  and 
The  Literary  Review  (New  York  Evening  Post). 


488746 


CONTENTS 

BEAUTY      3 

THE  EAGLE  AND  THE  MOLE    4 
MADMAN'S  SONG    6 
THE  PRINKIN'  LEDDIE     7 
AUGUST    9 

THE   CROOKED   STICK      lo 

ATAVISM      11 

WILD   PEACHES      12 

SANCTUARY      15 

THE.  LION   AND  THE   LAMB      16 

THE   CHURCH-BELL      17 

A   CROWDED   TROLLEY   CAR      19 

BELLS   IN   THE   RAIN      2o 

WINTER   SLEEP      21 

VILLAGE   MYSTERY      23 

SUNSET   ON   THE   SPIRE      24 

ESCAPE      26 

THE   FAIRY  GOLDSMITH      27 

"FIRE  AND  SLEET  AND  CANDLELIGHT"    3o 

BLOOD   FEUD      32 

SEA   LULLABY      33 

NANCY      35 

A   PROUD   LADY      36 

THE   TORTOISE   IN   ETERNITY      38 

INCANTATION      39 


CONTENTS 


SILVER  FILIGREE      41 
THE  FALCON      42 
BRONZE   TRUMPETS   AND 
SEA  WATER — ON   TURNING 
LATIN   INTO   ENGLISH      43 
SPRING   PASTORAL      44 
VELVET    SHOES      45 
VALENTINE      46 


NETS  TO  CATCH  THE  WIND 


BEAUTY 

Say  not  of  Beauty  she  is  good, 
Or  aught  but  beautiful, 
Or  sleek  to  doves'  wings  of  the  wood 
Her  wild  wings  of  a  gull. 

Call  her  not  wicked;  that  word's  touch 
Consumes  her  like  a  curse; 
But  love  her  not  too  much,  too  much, 
For  that  is  even  worse. 

O,  she  is  neither  good  nor  bad, 
But  innocent  and  wild! 
Enshrine  her  and  she  dies,  who  had 
The  hard  heart  of  a  child. 


J 


THE  EAGLE  AND  THE  MOLE 

Avoid  the  reeking  herd, 
Shun  the  polluted  flock, 
Live  like  that  stoic  bird, 
The  eagle  of  the  rock. 

The  huddled  warmth  of  crowds 
Begets  and  fosters  hate; 
He  keeps,  above  the  clouds, 
His  cliff  inviolate. 

When  flocks  are  folded  warm, 
And  herds  to  shelter  run, 
He  sails  above  the  storm, 
He  stares  into  the  sun. 

If  in  the  eagle's  track 
Your  sinews  cannot  leap, 
Avoid  the  lathered  pack, 
Turn  from  the  steaming  sheep. 

If  you  would  keep  your  soul 
From  spotted  sight  or  sound, 
Live  like  the  velvet  mole; 
Go  burrow  underground. 


The  Eagle  and  the  Mole 

And  there  hold  intercourse 
With  roots  of  trees  and  stones, 
With  rivers  at  their  source, 
And  disembodied  bones. 


MADMAN'S  SONG 

Better  to  see  your  cheek  grown  hollow, 
Better  to  see  your  temple  worn, 
Than  to  forget  to  follow,  follow, 
After  the  sound  of  a  silver  horn. 

Better  to  bind  your  brow  with  willow 

And  follow,  follow  until  you  die, 

Than  to  sleep  with  your  head  on  a  golden  pillow, 

Nor  lift  it  up  when  the  hunt  goes  by. 

Better  to  see  your  cheek  grown  sallow 
And  your  hair  grown  gray,  so  soon,  so  soon, 
Than  to  forget  to  hallo,  hallo, 
After  the  milk-white  hounds  of  the  moon. 


THE  PRINKIN'  LEDDIE 

"  The  Hielan'  lassies  are  a'  for  spinnin' 
The  Lowlan'  lassies  for  prinkin'  and  pinnin' ; 
My  daddie  w'u'd  chide  me,  an'  so  w'u'd  my  minnie 
If  I  s'u'd  bring  hame  sic  a  prinkin'  leddie." 

Now  baud  your  tongue,  ye  haverin'  coward, 
For  whilst  I'm  young  I'll  go  flounced  an'  flowered, 
In  lutestring  striped  like  the  strings  o'  a  fiddle, 
Wi'  gowden  girdles  aboot  my  middle. 

In  your  Helian'  glen,  where  the  rain  pours  steady, 
Ye'll  be  gay  an'  glad  for  a  prinkin'  leddie; 
Where  the  rocks  are  all  bare  an'  the  turf  is  all 

sodden, 
An'  lassies  gae  sad  in  their  homespun  an'  hodden. 

My  silks  are  stiff  wi'  patterns  o'  siller, 
I've  an  ermine  hood  like  the  hat  o'  a  miller, 
I've  chains  o'  coral  like  rowan  berries, 
An'  a  cramoisie  mantle  that  cam'  frae  Paris. 

7 


8  The  Prinkin'  Leddie 

Ye'U  be  glad  for  the  glint  o'  its  scarlet  linin' 
When  the  larks  are  up  an7  the  sun  is  shinin'; 
When  the  winds  are  up  an'  ower  the  heather 
Your  heart  '11  be  gay  wi'  my  gowden  feather. 

When  the  skies  are  low  an'  the  earth  is  frozen, 
Ye'll  be  gay  an'  glad  for  the  leddie  ye've  chosen, 
When  ower  the  snow  I  go  prinkin'  an'  prancin' 
In  my  wee  red  slippers  were  made  for  dancin'. 

It's  better  a  leddie  like  Solomon's  lily 
Than  one  that'll  run  like  a  Hielan'  gillie 
A-linkin'  it  ower  the  leas,  my  laddie, 
In  a  raggedy  kilt  an'  a  belted  plaidie! 


AUGUST 

Why  should  this  Negro  insolently  stride 
Down  the  red  noonday  on  such  noiseless  feet? 
Piled  in  his  barrow,  tawnier  than  wheat, 
Lie  heaps  of  smoldering  daisies,  somber-eyed, 
Their  copper  petals  shriveled  up  with  pride, 
Hot  with  a  superfluity  of  heat, 
Like  a  great  brazier  borne  along  the  street 
By  captive  leopards,  black  and  burning  pied. 

Are  there  no  water-lilies,  smooth  as  cream, 
With  long  stems  dripping  crystal?    Are  there  none 
Like  those  white  lilies,  luminous  and  cool, 
Plucked  from  some  hemlock-darkened  northern 

stream 

By  fair-haired  swimmers,  diving  where  the  sun 
Scarce  warms  the  surface  of  the  deepest  pool? 


THE  CROOKED  STICK 

First  Traveler:  What's  that  lying  in  the  dust? 

Second  Traveler:  A  crooked  stick. 

First  Traveler:  What's  it  worth,  if  you  can  trust 

To  arithmetic? 

Second  Traveler:  Isn't  this  a  riddle? 
First  Traveler:  No,  a  trick. 

Second  Traveler:  It's  worthless.    Leave  it  where 

it  lies. 
First  Traveler:  Wait;  count  ten; 

Rub  a  little  dust  upon  your  eyes; 

Now,  look  again. 
Second  Traveler:  Well,  and  what  the  devil  is  it, 

then? 
First  Traveler:  It's  the  sort  of  crooked  stick  that 

shepherds  know. 

Second  Traveler:  Some  one's  loss! 
First  Traveler:  Bend  it,  and  you  make  of  it  a  bow. 

Break  it,  a  cross. 

Second  Traveler:  But  it's  all  grown  over  with 
moss! 


10 


ATAVISM 

I  always  was  afraid  of  Somes's  Pond: 
Not  the  little  pond,  by  which  the  willow  stands, 
Where  laughing  boys  catch  alewives  in  their  hands 
In  brown,  bright  shallows;  but  the  one  beyond. 
There,  when  the  frost  makes  all  the  birches  burn 
Yellow  as  cow-lilies,  and  the  pale  sky  shines 
Like  a  polished  shell  between  black  spruce  and 

pines, 
Some  strange  thing  tracks  us,  turning  where  we 

turn. 

You'll  say  I  dream  it,  being  the  true  daughter 
Of  those  who  in  old  times  endured  this  dread. 
Look !    Where  the  lily-stems  are  showing  red 
A  silent  paddle  moves  below  the  water, 
A  sliding  shape  has  stirred  them  like  a  breath; 
Tall  plumes  surmount  a  painted  mask  of  death. 


ii 


WILD  PEACHES 

i 

When  (he  world  turns  completely  upside  down 
You  say  we'll  emigrate  to  the  Eastern  Shore 
Aboard  a  river-boat  from  Baltimore; 
We'll  live  among  wild  peach  trees,  miles  from 

town. 

You'll  wear  a  coonskin  cap,  and  I  a  gown 
Homespun,  dyed  butternut's  dark  gold  color. 
Lost,  like  your  lotus-eating  ancestor, 
We'll  swim  in  milk  and  honey  till  we  drown. 

The  winter  will  be  short,  the  summer  long, 
The  autumn  amber-hued,  sunny  and  hot, 
Tasting  of  cider  and  of  scuppernong; 
All  seasons  sweet,  but  autumn  best  of  all. 
The  squirrels  in  their  silver  fur  will  fall 
Like  falling  leaves,  like  fruit,  before  your  shot. 


The  autumn  frosts  will  lie  upon  the  grass 
mike  bloom  on  grapes  of  purple-brown  and  gold. 

12 


Wild  Peaches  13 

The  misted  early  mornings  will  be  cold; 
The  little  puddles  will  be  roofed  with  glass. 
The  sun,  which  burns  from  copper  into  brass, 
Melts  these  at  noon,  and  makes  the  boys  unfold 
Their  knitted  mufflers;  full  as  they  can  hold, 
Fat  pockets  dribble  chestnuts  as  they  pass. 

Peaches  grow  wild,  and  pigs  can  live  in  clover; 

A  barrel  of  salted  herrings  lasts  a  year; 

The  spring  begins  before  the  winter's  over. 

By  February  you  may  find  the  skins 

Of  garter  snakes  and  water  moccasins 

Dwindled  and  harsh,  dead-white  and  cloudy-clear. 

3 

When  April  pours  the  colors  of  a  shell 
Upon  the  hills,  when  every  little  creek 
Is  shot  with  silver  from  the  Chesapeake 
In  shoals  new-minted  by  the  ocean  swell, 
When  strawberries  go  begging,  and  the  sleek 
Blue  plums  lie  open  to  the  blackbird's  beak, 
We  shall  live  well — we  shall  live  very  well. 

The  months  between  the  cherries  and  the  peaches 
Are  brimming  cornucopias  which  spill 


14  Wild  Peaches 

Fruits  red  and  purple,  somber-bloomed  and  black; 
Then,  down  rich  fields  and  frosty  river  beaches 
We'll  trample  bright  persimmons,  while  we  kill 
Bronze  partridge,   speckled  quail,  and  canvas- 
back. 

4 

Down  to  the  Puritan  marrow  of  my  bones 
There's  something  in  this  richness  that  I  hate. 
I  love  the  look,  austere,  immaculate, 
Of  landscapes  drawn  in  pearly  monotones. 
There's  something  in  my  very  blood  that  owns 
Bare  hills,  cold  silver  on  a  sky  of  slate, 
A  thread  of  water,  churned  to  milky  spate 
Streaming  through  slanted  pastures  fenced  with 
stones. 

I  love  those  skies,  thin  blue  or  snowy  gray, 
Those   fields    sparse-planted,    rendering    meager 

sheaves; 

That  spring,  briefer  than  apple-blossom's  breath, 
Summer,  so  much  too  beautiful  to  stay, 
Swift  autumn,  like  a  bonfire  of  leaves, 
And  sleepy  winter,  like  the  sleep  of  death. 


SANCTUARY 

This  is  the  bricklayer;  hear  the  thud 
Of  his  heavy  load  dumped  down  on  stone. 
His  lustrous  bricks  are  brighter  than  blood, 
His  smoking  mortar  whiter  than  bone. 

Set  each  sharp-edged,  fire-bitten  brick 
Straight  by  the  plumb-line's  shivering  length; 
Make  my  marvelous  wall  so  thick 
Dead  nor  living  may  shake  its  strength. 

Full  as  a  crystal  cup  with  drink 
Is  my  cell  with  dreams,  and  quiet,  and  cool.  .  . 
Stop,  old  man!     You  must  leave  a  chink; 
How  can  I  breathe?    You  can't,  you  fool! 


THE  LION  AND  THE  LAMB 

I  saw  a  Tiger's  golden  flank, 
I  saw  what  food  he  ate, 
By  a  desert  spring  he  drank; 
The  Tiger's  name  was  Hate. 

Then  I  saw  a  placid  Lamb 
Lying  fast  asleep ; 
Like  a  river  from  its  dam 
Flashed  the  Tiger's  leap. 

I  saw  a  Lion  tawny-red, 
Terrible  and  brave; 
The  Tiger's  leap  overhead 
Broke  like  a  wave. 

In  sand  below  or  sun  above 
He  faded  like  a  flame. 
The  Lamb  said,  "  I  am  Love  "; 
"  Lion,  tell  your  name." 

The  Lion's  voice  thundering 
Shook  his  vaulted  breast, 
"  I  am  Love.     By  this  spring, 
Brother,  let  us  rest." 

16 


THE  CHURCH-BELL 

As  I  was  lying  in  my  bed 
I  heard  the  church-bell  ring; 
Before  one  solemn  word  was  said 
A  bird  began  to  sing. 

I  heard  a  dog  begin  to  bark 

And  a  bold  crowing  cock; 

The  bell,  between  the  cold  and  dark, 

Tolled.     It  was  five  o'clock. 

The  church-bell  tolled,  and  the  bird  sang, 
A  clear  true  voice  he  had; 
The  cock  crew,  and  the  church-bell  rang, 
I  knew  it  had  gone  mad. 

A  hand  reached  down  from  the  dark  skies, 
It  took  the  bell-rope  thong, 
The  bell  cried  "  Look!     Lift  up  your  eyes!  " 
The  clapper  shook  to  song. 

The  iron  clapper  laughed  aloud, 
Like  clashing  wind  and  wave; 
The  bell  cried  out  "  Be  strong  and  proud!  " 
Then,  with  a  shout,  "  Be  brave!  " 
17 


1 8  The  Church-Bell 

The  rumbling  of  the  market-carts, 

The  pounding  of  men's  feet 

Were  drowned  in  song ;  "  Lift  up  your  hearts  1 

The  sound  «ii|Joud  and  sweet. 


Slow  jM  RR*at  kell  swung, 

It  huijllnffiesteeple  mute; 
And  people  tore  its  living  tongue 
Out  by  the  very  root. 


A  CROWDED  TROLLEY  CAR 

The  rain's  cold 
Sharp  as  golden 
A  bell  is  clangii 
Hanging  by  their  hands. 

Supple  hands,  or  gnarled  and  stiff, 
Snatch  and  catch  and  grope; 
That  face  is  yellow-pale,  as  if 
The  fellow  swung  from  rope. 

Dull  like  pebbles,  sharp  like  knives, 
Glances  strike  and  glare, 
Fingers  tangle,  Bluebeard's  wives 
Dangle  by  the  hair. 

Orchard  of  the  strangest  fruits 
Hanging  from  the  skies; 
Brothers,  yet  insensate  brutes 
Who  fear  each  others'  eyes. 

t)ne  man  stands  as  free  men  stand, 
(  As  if  his  soul  might  be 
Brave,  unbroken;  see  his  hand 
failed  to  an  oaken  tree. 
19 


BELLS  IN  THE  RAIN 

Sleep  falls,  with  limpid  drops  of  rain, 
Upon  the  steep  cliffs  of  the  town. 
Sleep  falls;  men  are  at  peace  again 
While  the  small  drops  fall  softly  down. 

The  bright  drops  ring  like  bells  of  glass 
Thinned  by  the  wind,  and  lightly  blown; 
Sleep  cannot  fall  on  peaceful  grass 
So  softly  as  it  falls  on  stone. 

Peace  falls  unheeded  on  the  dead 
Asleep;  they  have  had  deep  peace  to  drink; 
Upon  a  live  man's  bloody  head 
It  falls  most  tenderly,  I  think. 


20 


\ 


WINTER  SLEEP 

When  against  earth  a  wooden  heel 
Clicks  as  loud  as  stone  and  steel, 
When  snow  turns  flour  instead  of  flakes, 
And  frost  bakes  clay  as  fire  bakes, 
When  the  hard-bitten  fields  at  last 
Crack  like  iron  flawed  in  the  cast, 
When  the  world  is  wicked  and  cross  and  old, 
I  long  to  be  quit  of  the  cruel  cold. 

Little  birds  like  bubbles  of  glass 

Fly  to  other  Americas, 

Birds  as  bright  as  sparkles  of  wine 

Fly  in  the  night  to  the  Argentine, 

Birds  of  azure  and  flame-birds  go 

To  the  tropical  Gulf  of  Mexico: 

They  chase  the  sun,  they  follow  the  heat, 

It  is  sweet  in  their  bones,  O  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

It's  not  with  them  that  I'd  love  to  be, 

But  under  the  roots  of  the  balsam  tree. 

Just  as  the  spiniest  chestnut-burr 
Is  lined  within  with  the  finest  fur, 

21 


22  Winter  Sleep 

So  the  stony-walled,  snow-roofed  house 
Of  every  squirrel  and  mole  and  mouse 
Is  lined  with  thistledown,  sea-gull's  feather, 
Velvet  mullein-leaf,  heaped  together 
With  balsam  and  juniper,  dry  and  curled, 
Sweeter  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
O  what  a  warm  and  darksome  nest 
Where  the  wildest  things  are  hidden  to  rest! 
It's  there  that  I'd  love  to  lie  and  sleep, 
Soft,  soft,  soft,  and  deep,  deep,  deep! 


VILLAGE  MYSTERY 

The  woman  in  the  pointed  hood 
And  cloak  blue-gray  like  a  pigeon's  wing, 
Whose  orchard  climbs  to  the  balsam-wood, 
Has  done  a  cruel  thing. 

To  her  back  door-step  came  a  ghost, 
A  girl  who  had  been  ten  years  dead, 
She  stood  by  the  granite  hitching-post 
And  begged  for  a  piece  of  bread. 

Now  why  should  I,  who  walk  alone, 
Who  am  ironical  and  proud, 
Turn,  when  a  woman  casts  a  stone 
At  a  beggar  in  a  shroud? 

I  saw  the  dead  girl  cringe  and  whine, 
And  cower  in  the  weeping  air — 
But,  oh,  she  was  no  kin  of  mine, 
And  so  I  did  not  care! 


SUNSET  ON  THE  SPIRE 

All  that  I  dream 

By  day  or  night 
Lives  in  that  stream 

Of  lovely  light. 
Here  is  the  earth, 

And  there  is  the  spire; 
This  is  my  hearth, 

And  that  is  my  fire. 
From  the  sun's  dome 

I  am  shouted  proof 
That  this  is  my  home, 

And  that  is  my  roof. 
Here  is  my  food, 

And  here  is  my  drink, 
And  I  am  wooed 

From  the  moon's  brink. 
And  the  days  go  over, 
And  the  nights  end; 
Here  is  my  lover, 
Here  is  my  friend. 
24 


Sunset  on  the  Spire  25 

All  that  I 

Could  ever  ask 
Wears  that  sky 
Like  a  thin  gold  mask. 


ESCAPE 


When  foxes  eat  the  last  gold  grape, 
And  the  last  white  antelope  is  killed, 
I  shall  stop  fighting  and  escape 
Into  a  little  house  I'll  build. 

But  first  I'll  shrink  to  fairy  size, 
With  a  whisper  no  one  understands, 
Making  blind  moons  of  all  your  eyes, 
And  muddy  roads  of  all  your  hands. 

And  you  may  grope  for  me  in  vain 
In  hollows  under  the  mangrove  root, 
Or  where,  in  apple-scented  rain, 
The  silver  wasp-nests  hang  like  fruit. 


26 


THE  FAIRY  GOLDSMITH 

Here's  a  wonderful  thing, 
A  humming-bird's  wing 

In  hammered  gold, 
And  store  well  chosen 
Of  snowflakes  frozen 

In  crystal  cold. 

Black  onyx  cherries 
And  mistletoe  berries 

Of  chrysoprase, 
Jade  buds,  tight  shut, 
All  carven  and  cut 

In  intricate  ways. 

Here,  if  you  please 
Are  little  gilt  bees 

In  amber  drops 
Which  look  like  honey, 
Translucent  and  sunny, 

From  clover-tops. 
27 


The  Fairy  Goldsmith 

Here's  an  elfin  girl 
Of  mother-of-pearl 

And  moonshine  made, 
With  tortoise-shell  hair 
Both  dusky  and  fair 

In  its  light  and  shade. 

Here's  lacquer  laid  thin, 
Like  a  scarlet  skin 

On  an  ivory  fruit; 
And  a  filigree  frost 
Of  frail  notes  lost 

From  a  fairy  lute. 

Here's  a  turquoise  chain 
Of  sun-shower  rain 

To  wear  if  you  wish; 
And  glimmering  green 
With  aquamarine, 

A  silvery  fish. 

Here  are  pearls  all  strung 
On  a  thread  among 

Pretty  pink  shells; 
And  bubbles  blown 
From  the  opal  stone 

Which  ring  like  bells. 


The  Fairy  Goldsmith  29 

Touch  them  and  take  them, 
But  do  not  break  them! 

Beneath  your  hand 
They  will  wither  like  foam 
If  you  carry  them  home 

Out  of  fairy-land. 

O,  they  never  can  last 
Though  you  hide  them  fast 

From  moth  and  from  rust; 
In  your  monstrous  day 
They  will  crumble  away 

Into  quicksilver  dust. 


"FIRE  AND  SLEET  AND  CANDLELIGHT" 

For  this  you've  striven 

Daring,  to  fail: 
Your  sky  is  riven 

Like  a  tearing  veil. 

For  this,  you've  wasted 

Wings  of  your  youth; 
Divined,  and  tasted 

Bitter  springs  of  truth. 

From  sand  unslaked 
Twisted  strong  cords, 

And  wandered  naked 
Among  trysted  swords. 

There's  a  word  unspoken, 

A  knot  untied. 
Whatever  is  broken 

The  earth  may  hide. 

The  road  was  jagged 

Over  sharp  stones: 
Your  body's  too  ragged 

To  cover  your  bones. 
30 


Fire  and  Sleet  and  Candlelight"  31 

The  wind  scatters 

Tears  upon  dust; 
Your  soul's  in  tatters 

Where  the  spears  thrust. 

Your  race  is  ended — 

See,  it  is  run: 
Nothing  is  mended 

Under  the  sun. 

Straight  as  an  arrow 

You  fall  to  a  sleep 
Not  too  narrow 

And  not  too  deep. 


BLOOD  FEUD 

Once,  when  my  husband  was  a  child,  there  came 
To  his  father's  table,  one  who  called  him  kin, 
In  sunbleached  corduroys  paler  than  his  skin. 
His  look  was  grave  and  kind;  he  bore  the  name 
Of  the  dead  singer  of  Senlac,  and  his  smile. 
Shyly  and  courteously  he  smiled  and  spoke; 
"  I've  been  in  the  laurel  since  the  winter  broke; 
Four  months,  I  reckon;  yes,  sir,  quite  a  while." 

He'd  killed  a  score  of  foemen  in  the  past, 

In  some  blood-feud,  a  dark  and  monstrous  thing; 

To  him  it  seemed  his  duty.     At  the  last 

His  enemies  found  him  by  a  forest  spring, 

Which,  as  he  died,  lay  bright  beneath  his  head, 

A  silver  shield  that  slowly  turned  to  red. 


SEA  LULLABY 

The  old  moon  is  tarnished 
With  smoke  of  the  flood, 
The  dead  leaves  are  varnished 
With  color  like  blood, 

A  treacherous  smiler 
With  teeth  white  as  milk, 
A  savage  beguiler 
In  sheathings  of  silk, 

The  sea  creeps  to  pillage, 
She  leaps  on  her  prey; 
A  child  of  the  village 
Was  murdered  to-day. 

She  came  up  to  meet  him 
In  a  smooth  golden  cloak, 
She  choked  him  and  beat  him 
To  death,  for  a  joke. 

Her  bright  locks  were  tangled, 
She  shouted  for  joy, 
With  one  hand  she  strangled 
A  strong  little  boy. 

33 


34  Sea  Lullaby 

Now  in  silence  she  lingers 
Beside  him  all  night 
To  wash  her  long  fingers 
In  silvery  light. 


NANCY 

You  are  a  rose,  but  set  with  sharpest  spine; 
You  are  a  pretty  bird  that  pecks  at  me; 
You  are  a  little  squirrel  on  a  tree, 
Pelting  me  with  the  prickly  fruit  of  the  pine; 
A  diamond,  torn  from  a  crystal  mine, 
Not  like  that  milky  treasure  of  the  sea 
A  smooth,  translucent  pearl,  but  skilfully 
Carven  to  cut,  and  faceted  to  shine. 

If  you  are  flame,  it  dances  and  burns  blue; 
If  you  are  light,  it  pierces  like  a  star 
Intenser  than  a  needlepoint  of  ice. 
The  dexterous  touch  that  shaped  the  soul  of  you, 
Mingled,  to  mix,  and  make  you  what  you  are, 
Magic  between  the  sugar  and  the  spice. 

' 


35 


A  PROUD  LADY 

Hate  in  the  world's  hand 
Can  carve  and  set  its  seal 
Like  the  strong  blast  of  sand 
Which  cuts  into  steel. 

I  have  seen  how  the  finger  of  hate 
Can  mar  and  mold 
Faces  burned  passionate 
And  frozen  cold. 

Sorrowful  faces  worn 
As  stone  with  rain, 
Faces  writhing  with  scorn 
And  sullen  with  pain. 

But  you  have  a  proud  face 
Which  the  world  cannot  harm, 
You  have  turned  the  pain  to  a  grace 
And  the  scorn  to  a  charm. 

You  have  taken  the  arrows  and  slings 
Which  prick  and  bruise 
And  fashioned  them  into  wings 
For  the  heels  of  your  shoes. 
36 


A  Proud  Lady  37 

From  the  world's  hand  which  tries 
To  tear  you  apart 
You  have  stolen  the  falcon's  eyes 
And  the  lion's  heart. 

What  has  it  done,  this  world, 
/    With  hard  finger  tips, 

But  sweetly  chiseled  and  curled 
I     Your  inscrutable  lips? 


THE  TORTOISE  IN  ETERNITY 

Within  my  house  of  patterned  horn 
I  sleep  in  such  a  bed 
As  men  may  keep  before  they're  born 
And  after  they  are  dead. 

Sticks  and  stones  may  break  their  bones, 
And  words  may  make  them  bleed; 
There  is  not  one  of  them  who  owns 
An  armor  to  his  need. 

Tougher  than  hide  or  lozenged  bark, 
Snow-storm  and  thunder  proof, 
And  quick  with  sun,  and  thick  with  dark, 
Is  this  my  darling  roof. 

Men's  troubled  dreams  of  death  and  birth 
Pulse  mother-o'-pearl  to  black; 
I  bear  the  rainbow  bubble  Earth 
Square  on  my  scornful  back. 


INCANTATION 

A  white  well 
In  a  black  cave; 
A  bright  shell 
In  a  dark  wave. 

A  white  rose 
Black  brambles  hood; 
Smooth  bright  snows 
In  a  dark  wood. 

A  flung  white  glove 
In  a  dark  fight; 
A  white  dove 
On  a  wild  black  night. 

A  white  door 
In  a  dark  lane; 
A  bright  core 
To  bitter  black  pain. 

A  white  hand 
Waved  from  dark  walls; 
In  a  burnt  black  land 
Bright  waterfalls. 

39 


40  Incantation 


A  bright  spark 
Where  black  ashes  are; 
In  the  smothering  dark 
One  white  star. 


SILVER  FILIGREE 

The  icicles  wreathing 

On  trees  in  festoon 
Swing,  swayed  to  our  breathing 

They're  made  of  the  moon. 

She's  a  pale,  waxen  taper; 

And  these  seem  to  drip 
Transparent  as  paper 

From  the  flame  of  her  tip. 

Molten,  smoking  a  little, 
Into  crystal  they  pass; 

Falling,  freezing,  to  brittle 
And  delicate  glass. 

Each  a  sharp-pointed  flower, 
Each  a  brief  stalactite 

Which  hangs  for  an  hour 
In  the  blue  cave  of  night. 


THE  FALCON 

Why  should  my  sleepy  heart  be  taught 
To  whistle  mocking-bird  replies? 
This  is  another  bird  you've  caught, 
Soft-feathered,  with  a  falcon's  eyes. 

The  bird  Imagination, 
That  flies  so  far,  that  dies  so  soon; 
Her  wings  are  colored  like  the  sun, 
Her  breast  is  colored  like  the  moon. 

Weave  her  a  chain  of  silver  twist, 
And  a  little  hood  of  scarlet  wool, 
And  let  her  perch  upon  your  wrist, 
And  tell  her  she  is  beautiful. 


BRONZE  TRUMPETS  AND  SEA  WATER- 
ON  TURNING  LATIN  INTO  ENGLISH 

Alembics  turn  to  stranger  things 
Strange  things,  but  never  while  we  live 
Shall  magic  turn  this  bronze  that  sings 
To  singing  water  in  a  sieve. 

The  trumpeters  of  Caesar's  guard 
Salute  his  rigorous  bastions 
With  ordered  bruit;  the  bronze  is  hard 
Though  there  is  silver  in  the  bronze. 

Our  mutable  tongue  is  like  the  sea, 
Curled  wave  and  shattering  thunder-fit; 
Dangle  in  strings  of  sand  shall  be 
Who  smooths  the  ripples  out  of  it. 


43 


SPRING  PASTORAL 

Liza,  go  steep  your  long  white  hands 
In  the  cool  waters  of  that  spring 
Which  bubbles  up  through  shiny  sands 
The  color  of  a  wild-dove's  wing. 

Dabble  your  hands,  and  steep  them  well 
Until  those  nails  are  pearly  white 
Now  rosier  than  a  laurel  bell; 
Then  come  to  me  at  candle-light. 

Lay  your  cold  hands  across  my  brows, 
And  I  shall  sleep,  and  I  shall  dream 
Of  silver-pointed  willow  boughs 
Dipping  their  fingers  in  a  stream. 


VELVET  SHOES 

Let  us  walk  in  the  white  snow 
In  a  soundless  space; 

With  footsteps  quiet  and  slow, 
At  a  tranquil  pace, 
Under  veils  of  white  lace. 

I  shall  go  shod  in  silk, 

And  you  in  wool, 
White  as  a  white  cow's  milk, 

More  beautiful 

Than  the  breast  of  a  gull. 

We  shall  walk  through  the  still  town 

In  a  windless  peace; 
We  shall  step  upon  white  down, 

Upon  silver  fleece, 

Upon  softer  than  these. 

We  shall  walk  in  velvet  shoes: 

Wherever  we  go 
Silence  will  fall  like  dews 

On  white  silence  below. 

We  shall  walk  in  the  snow. 

45 


VALENTINE 

Too  high,  too  high  to  pluck 
My  heart  shall  swing. 
A  fruit  no  bee  shall  suck, 
No  wasp  shall  sting. 

If  on  some  night  of  cold 
It  falls  to  ground 
In  apple-leaves  of  gold 
I'll  wrap  it  round. 

And  I  shall  seal  it  up 
With  spice  and  salt, 
In  a  carven  silver  cup, 
In  a  deep  vault. 

Before  my  eyes  are  blind 
And  my  lips  mute, 
I  must  eat  core  and  rind 
Of  that  same  fruit. 

Before  my  heart  is  dust 
At  the  end  of  all, 
Eat  it  I  must,  I  must 
Were  it  bitter  gall. 

46 


Valentine  47 

But  I  shall  keep  it  sweet 
By  some  strange  art; 
Wild  honey  I  shall  eat 
When  I  eat  my  heart. 

O  honey  cool  and  chaste 
As  clover's  breath! 
Sweet  Heaven  I  shall  taste 
Before  my  death. 


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